Page 28 of To Her

Geri

T he meeting didn't go to plan at all. Con was quiet, distant, and formal, telling me it was okay, he understood, and that I should call him once I got my shit together.

He knew I wasn't going to call just as much as I did.

I had now lost my friend, and the only person who cared enough about me, even when I was being a dick.

But I took it on the chin, promised myself I would do better, I would stay away from anything meaningful in the future, but that no one deserved for me to treat them this way, and that I was better off alone.

Con stopped messaging me. And I hated it. I missed my friend more than I was able to explain. James told me I should have just opened up to him, told him what happened, but I knew I wouldn't. No way would I open up to anyone ever. It was my cross to bear.

The coffee shop felt too warm, too crowded, too everything as I watched Con walk away. His shoulders were straight, his stride purposeful—the picture of someone who had said what they needed to say and was now moving on with their life. Moving on from me.

I remained frozen at the table, my coffee untouched and cooling rapidly, replaying the last twenty minutes in my head like a horror movie I couldn't look away from.

He'd arrived exactly on time, not a minute early or late. I'd watched him scan the café, his expression carefully neutral when he spotted me. No smile. No warmth. Just a slight nod of acknowledgment before he ordered his drink and joined me.

"Thanks for meeting me," he'd said, his voice so formal it made my chest ache.

"Of course," I'd replied, as if I hadn't spent two weeks avoiding his calls and messages. As if this was just a casual catch-up between friends.

We'd made small talk for a few excruciating minutes—how was work, how was the new place, had I heard about the late-season snowfall at Alpine Ridge.

The kind of conversation you'd have with an acquaintance, not someone who had seen you naked, who had held you through the night, who had told you he was falling in love with you.

And then, when the pleasantries had been exhausted, he'd gotten to the point.

"I think I understand what happened," he'd said, his green eyes steady on mine. "You got scared. Things got too real, too fast, and you ran. It's what you do."

I'd opened my mouth to protest, but what could I say? He was right.

"I'm not angry," he continued. "I was, at first. But now I'm just... tired. Tired of chasing someone who doesn't want to be caught."

"That's not—" I'd started, but he cut me off with a gentle shake of his head.

"It is. And that's okay. You're allowed to not be ready. You're allowed to need space or time or whatever it is you're looking for. But I can't keep doing this dance, Geri. I can't keep investing in someone who runs at the first sign of depth."

His words had hit me like physical blows, each one landing with perfect accuracy. Because he was right. Of course he was right. I did run. I always ran. It was the one thing I was consistently good at.

"I'm sorry," I'd whispered, the words feeling wholly inadequate.

"I know you are." His expression had softened slightly. "And I believe you mean it. But being sorry doesn't change anything if you're just going to do the same thing next time you get scared."

I'd looked down at my hands, unable to meet his gaze. "I don't know how to be different."

"Yes, you do." His voice had been gentle but firm. "You just choose not to be. And that's your right. But it's also my right to step back and protect myself."

And that was when he'd said it—the words that were now echoing in my head as I sat alone in the café.

"Call me when you get your shit together, Geri. Not before. Because I care about you too much to keep watching you self-destruct."

Then he'd stood, nodded once, and walked out of the café and, I suspected, out of my life.

I finally forced myself to move, gathering my things and leaving the untouched coffee behind. The spring air outside felt too sharp, too bright, too alive for the hollowness inside me.

I drove back to my new place on autopilot, barely registering the familiar landmarks I passed. Derek was out, thank God. I couldn't have handled small talk right now, not with the weight of Con's words pressing down on me.

I collapsed onto my bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling the emptiness of the room around me. This was what I'd chosen— this solitude, this distance, this safety. So why did it feel so much like punishment?

My phone buzzed with a text from James:

How did it go?

I considered lying, considered not responding at all, but in the end, I went with the truth:

He told me to call him when I get my shit together.

James's response was quick:

And?

And what?

Are you going to?

I stared at the question for a long time. Was I? Could I? What would "getting my shit together" even look like for someone as fundamentally broken as me?

I don't know how

Yes, you do

Came James's immediate response, echoing Con's words so perfectly it made me wonder if they'd been talking about me. You just don't want to do the work.

The accusation stung, all the more because I knew it was true. I'd spent years in therapy, in meetings, in self-help groups. I knew the steps. I knew what healing looked like, in theory. I just couldn't

seem to make myself take the leap from knowledge to action.

It's not that simple

Never said it was simple. Just said you know how.

I didn't respond to that. What could I say? That he was wrong? That I was trying? Both would be lies, and James deserved better than my lies.

I spent the rest of the day in a fog, moving through the motions of existence without really being present. I showered. I ate something, though I couldn't have told you what. I stared at the TV without absorbing anything that happened on screen.

And all the while, Con's words played on repeat in my head: Call me when you get your shit together. Not before.

By evening, the apartment felt like it was closing in on me. The walls seemed to pulse with my restlessness, my regret, my self-loathing. I needed to get out, needed air, needed... something.

I grabbed my keys and headed for my car without any clear destination in mind.

I just drove, windows down, music loud enough to drown out my thoughts.

I ended up at a beach I didn't recognize, somewhere north of Seabreeze Haven.

The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that seemed obscenely beautiful for how hollow I felt inside.

I parked and walked down to the sand, sitting just beyond where the waves could reach me. The beach was nearly empty—just a few die-hard surfers catching the last waves of the day and a couple walking hand-in-hand in the distance.

I pulled my knees to my chest and watched the horizon, trying to make sense of the chaos in my head. Why was I like this? Why did I sabotage every good thing that came into my life? Why couldn't I just be normal, just once?

The questions had no answers, or at least none that I was willing to face. So instead, I sat and watched the sun sink into the ocean, feeling smaller and more alone with each passing minute.

My phone buzzed in my pocket—probably James checking on me again. I ignored it. I couldn't handle his concern right now, his well-meaning but pointed questions. I couldn't handle anyone caring about me when I was so determined to prove I wasn't worth caring about.

As darkness fell, I finally stood and brushed the sand from my jeans. The drive back to Riverside was long and quiet, the roads emptier now, the night pressing in around my car like a physical presence.

Derek was home when I returned, watching something on his laptop in the living room.

He glanced up when I came in, offering a brief nod before returning to his screen.

I appreciated his lack of interest in my comings and goings.

It was exactly the kind of roommate relationship I needed right now—distant, undemanding, uncomplicated.

"There's pizza in the kitchen if you want some," he said without looking up.

"Thanks," I replied, though food was the last thing on my mind.

I retreated to my room, closing the door firmly behind me. The space felt even emptier now, even less like home. I hadn't bothered to decorate, to put up pictures or posters or anything that might make it feel like mine. What was the point? It was just a place to sleep, a place to hide.

I finally checked my phone, expecting a message from James. Instead, I found a text from an unknown number:

Hey, it's Alex. Got a new phone. Just checking in. How's life treating you?

The timing was so perfect it was almost laughable. Of course Alex would reach out now, when I was at my lowest, when I was most vulnerable to making bad decisions just to feel something other than this emptiness.

I stared at the message, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. It would be so easy to fall back into old patterns, to use Alex as a distraction, a bandage over the wound Con had left. So easy, and so predictable.

Life's shit right now, actually, I typed, then deleted it. I'm fine, I wrote instead, then deleted that too.

In the end, I put the phone down without responding. It was a small victory, but it felt important somehow. A tiny step toward not being the person who always took the easy way out.

I lay on my bed, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling. Sleep seemed impossible, but I didn't have the energy to do anything else. So I just existed, suspended in the limbo between wakefulness and rest, my mind cycling through the day's events like a broken record.

Con's face when he'd said goodbye. Not angry, not hurt, just... resigned. Like he'd finally accepted what I'd known all along—that I wasn't worth the effort. That I was too damaged, too difficult, too much and not enough all at once.

The worst part was, I couldn't even blame him. If our positions were reversed, I would have given up on me long ago.